


Bloody Muddle

by thestarsjustblinkforus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Musichetta is too, Poor Joly is a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsjustblinkforus/pseuds/thestarsjustblinkforus
Summary: A Joly/Musichetta meet-cute based on thisADORABLE short with Hugh Skinner and Zawe Ashton(as such, the first half of the dialogue is not mine).
Relationships: Joly/Bossuet Laigle, Joly/Musichetta
Kudos: 5





	Bloody Muddle

He breathes in and there’s a sudden burn. A _familiar_ burn and he thinks, _Shit_. _Oh, shit. Not now…_

He quickly excuses himself from the conference room and Violet and Josef barely bat an eye already bored out of their minds and nearly comatose at the prospect of having to sit through another round of interviews, and he partially agrees but makes it a point not to make it apparent because he owes it to the candidates to give them his Full Attention and finding the right person to sit at the front desk is, actually, tremendously important and _God, no, not the Men’s_ , the janitorial staff seems to be as afraid of it as he is and he needs _clean_ , he needs _white tiles_ , he needs calm and hopefully the smell of disinfectant and hand soap and not urinal cakes that haven’t been replaced in months and _shit, shit, damn, damn it…_

He makes a beeline for the Ladies instead and manages to reach the handtowels just in time to get one to his nose before he starts bleeding all over his shirt. It quickly soaks through, a bright, violent red, and he grabs another, flipping his tie over his shoulder and leaning over the sink briefly as he tosses the used wad away and quickly replaces it. He tilts his head back waiting for it to slow, that strange mix of hopefulness and dread that usually accompanies these episodes settling low in his stomach.

He sometimes thinks his early warning system wouldn’t be nearly as troubling if it only alerted him when something _bad_ was about to happen, but really he’s just as inclined to start bleeding if it’s something pleasant so the moment he feels that tickle at the bridge of his nose, that burn, there’s instant anxiety over which it’s going to be. He has no way to prepare himself. He _had_ no way to prepare himself for what happened last time and standing here in the Ladies’ with his head tilted back and a wad of hand towel stuck up his nose, he really doesn’t know if he can take another upheaval so soon, good or bad. He needs a bit of recovery time. He needs a chance to figure it out.

He has to lead an interview in less than ten minutes and all he can think about is his best friend’s tongue in his mouth and Courfeyrac’s obsession with Spin the Bottle at every gathering that isn’t _Amis_ -related and Jeannette’s face and then _his_ face and… and it’s been A Week. A deeply confusing, awful week, and he feels all jumbled up and nervous and he can’t talk to Bousset because… well. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, he tells himself to breathe. This is not unfixable. Jeannette has finally returned his calls and said she’d meet him for dinner tonight to talk and he’s fairly certain that this is what this is this time. He’s just nervous about tonight. 

_You do this to yourself._

_Just breathe, Joly. Just breathe…_

A toilet flushes and he startles, has just enough time to step back from the sink before a young woman steps out of one of the stalls.

She slows when she sees him, stares as he takes another step back, head still tilted with a wad of handtowel up his nose and he tries to laugh off the absurdity because it _is_ a bit absurd and running for the door at this point might prove rather alarming so he attempts to explain, “I’m so sorry I wouldn’t normally be in here, it’s a bit of an emergency…” She nods, setting her coat down on the counter and he wants to say, _Oh, but it’s wet_ , but continues because already done, already in a puddle, _Poor coat_ , “Not a fight, I just get these… Just seems to be when something _really_ important is going to happen…” 

She turns on the sink and nods at him over her shoulder with a “Right…” and really he should probably just grab some more towel and go now, but he blathers on, “Yeah, something I’ve built up in my head and then-” He makes a swooping gesture - a gesture to encapsulate all the shit that usually follows these episodes and - _shit!_

She flinches at the sudden movement, gasping aloud as a perfect arc of blood lands on her white blouse and he is mortified, he is _mortified_ as he reaches out, “I am _so_ sorry -” and she squeaks “ _Oh my God, what are you doing?!_ ” as his hands hover over her chest and

“Yeah, no, you’re right, sorry!” 

She turns to the mirror to see the mess he’s made of her blouse, moans, “ _Oh my God,_ I’ve got a _job interview_ in _ten minutes_!” She shoots him an incredulous look, _You utter **prat**_ , and then back to the mirror again whispering a horrified, “What am I going to do now…” at herself.

“Um-”

“Oh my God, I only came in here to do my pre-interview dump.”

“…” **  
**

“Oh my God. Oh my God, this is…” She puts her hands on her hips, taking in the state of herself again and she shakes her head like it’s nothing more than she’d expect at this point. She turns to him abruptly, “Why are you even in here?”

“Well, it’s… it’s a bit cleaner in here and not many women work here so-”

“ _Dick_ …” She turns back to the mirror again and he stands there awkwardly with his elbow in the air, towel back up his nose, looking at her reflection with her as she says, “Why is this kind of thing always happening to me…”

Her voice breaks a little on the last word and he feels awful, this is _awful_ , and he offers lamely, “It doesn’t look that bad…” 

She turns to him again, gives him a tight-lipped, _Are you kidding me, you **wanke**_ **r** look, and he babbles, tilting his head back even farther because his nose is still stinging like mad as he gestures at his own shirt getting an idea, “I mean - _my_ shirt actually… is… it’s actually _completely_ clean if…”

She looks at him. 

At her reflection. 

At him again. 

And then she nods. 

He nods.

They look at each other.

“Ah. Ah, ok. Ah.” He attempts to unbutton his shirt one-handed and she throws her hands up, shaking her head as she comes towards him.

“ _Less_ than _ten_ minutes,” she reminds him and then she’s briskly unbuttoning his shirt and yanking it out of his trousers. It turns into a sort of odd slow-motion ballet, the getting of his arm out of the sleeve and then switching hands to the towel, oh so careful not to get a drop on this shirt as well, and then once it’s clear she yanks it the rest of the way off, sending him half-spinning and it’s really awfully cold in the Ladies. 

She looks him over, blinks, says, “Right. So. I’m… I’m going to go in there -” she gestures with his shirt at a stall, “And… I’m going to leave mine in there.” 

She stands there for a second longer and then turns abruptly as he calls after her, “I really am-”

“ _Don’ttalktomeplease_.”

He switches out the towel which he’s nearly bled through completely and looks at himself, the redness of his nose that’s a little raw from it, but the bleeding does seem to have stopped for now and 

_**“I have a job interview in ten minutes”** _

_Oh._

_**“Less than ten minutes.”** _

_Oh. Oh, no._

The candidate. She’s the next…

He straightens as the door clicks open and he should say something, he should really… 

She speeds past him, pointing as she does at the stall where she’s left her blouse for him and then she’s gone and _shit_.

 _Shit_.

He's not quite sure how all of this has happened and happened _under_ _5 minutes_ , and thinks, _Ok, Right. Ok. Get it together, Joly_.

She’s left the blouse hanging on the hook at the back of the door and he pulls it on thinking it smells quite nice as he does, and also that _tight_ does not quite begin to-

He wrestles with it a little, curving inward to get at the buttons, to get them to close and his phone buzzes in his back pocket and he jolts, the blouse springing open again as he nearly drops his phone in the toilet in his scramble to answer vaguely worried about _tearing_ her blouse on top of everything, but it’s only a text, a quick succession of texts from Les:

**I’m going to visit my family this weekend**

**It’s not about**

**I’m not avoiding you man**

**I just have to go**

**I’ll see you when I get back yeah?**

And he types out slowly,

**Yeah**

**Ok**

_Fuck._

He sighs and a button pops off his chest and rolls across the floor

**+++**

He got to the restaurant early, went home only long enough to change out of _Musichetta Ashton’s_ blouse, because he hadn’t had a chance to earlier, just threw a suit coat on over it for the rest of the day because they had several other candidates to see, candidates with actually _less_ experience on their CV than she had on hers which makes him even more upset that they hadn’t actually gotten to interview her properly, but that was his fault entirely. He hadn’t known what to say, he should have _said_ something, should have done… not what he did, and she practically ran out of the conference room once she realized he was the one doing the interview and her face, the look on her face…

He put it out of his mind as best he could and got on with his day spending much of it whenever he was alone looking at his phone, at the texts from Les, his chest unbearably tight. His eyes stung like his stupid nose stung and he wanted to go home but stuck it out, finished the day, only had to answer questions about his attire _thrice_ before finally making it home and stripping out of the blouse and putting it in the sink to soak in cold water with the last of his washing powder.

He wasn’t supposed to meet Jeannette until 7 but he was there by 6:30 on the dot. He ordered a bottle of wine, cracking it only when he got her text twenty minutes after she was supposed to be at the restaurant, a nice place he’d never been to but remembered she’d mentioned once that she liked. And he’s not surprised, he can’t say in good conscience that he is surprised because she’s right.

**I can’t do this I’m sorry**

**You obviously have some feelings to work out and I don’t have it in me to wait and hope that maybe they’ll work out in my favour**

**Even if they did I’d always wonder**

**And tbh I don’t think they would anyway**

**You don’t kiss people like that if you don’t feel**

**Stupid game or not you don’t unless**

**You mean it**

**I wish you the best**

**I mean that**

**You’re lovely I’ve had a lovely time with you Michael**

**It’s been**

**Lovely**

**Sorry to leave it like this**

**Don’t call me please**

She had said once that she felt like a third wheel whenever Les came over. He’d laughed and kissed her but she’d been quiet. He had stammered that they’d known each other for ages, they were close because of that and she had nodded, dropped a hand in his hair and played with it, murmuring, “It’s like you’ve got your own language sometimes…” and he didn’t know what to say to that so he kissed her again and murmured, “So do we…” as he got her top off.

He really liked Jeannette, he wanted to make it work, so when she eventually asked if he wouldn’t mind spending more time with _her_ … well, of course, he said _Of course!_ And he knew she didn’t like it, asking, but the _I’m your girlfriend, you should want to_ , was clear and she was right and so he didn’t see Les every day anymore. He consciously spent less time texting and skyping him and more time being a boyfriend and he enjoyed Jeannette, he did, but if he were honest with himself he would have admitted it had all felt like tamping down on an impulse. The reaching for Jeannette instead of Les a conscious denial of an ingrained impulse that had been there since they barrelled into each other at a comic shop when they were eleven and dropped everything they were holding which happened to be the exact _same_ selection of books.

The last three months have been the least amount of time they’ve spent together in the last twelve years, and it had felt wrong even as things were better than ever with Jeanette.

Les had smiled and shrugged, _“I get it, man,”_ when he had tried to explain why he had to cancel _Walking Dead_ night for the third time in a row. _“She’s the one,”_ he had said with a chuckle and he hadn’t answered that but frowned because he’d never thought about it if she was or not. Jeannette was a girlfriend. And the first who had actually asked him to _choose her._ Which felt like something she had every right to do - and she never asked him to stop _seeing_ Les… she had just asked that he’d see _her_ more. It was even her idea to go to the party in the first place…

Courf was throwing a _Just Because_ Party and Jeannette had said, _We should go, I’d like to know your crew better_ , and he had been so busy with work and relationshipping like an Adult that he hadn’t seen much of them in the last few months either so it had sounded like a good enough idea even though Courfeyrac’s parties can get, _um_ , and his nose had been doing the awful thing it does whenever he thought about it, but he’d seen Les’s handle, _The Boss_ , which Grantaire had changed his name to when he’d left his Facebook open on the list of “Going”s so of course, of _course_ , he was going to go. And Jeannette would come too. And it would be fine, it would be _great_. A _Good Things Await Maybe_ nosebleed.

And then it was 2am and they were all a little drunk and Courf did what Courf does which is pick up one of the bottles and demand everyone get in a circle and the bottle kept landing on _Les_ , and the bottle - it’s not like he was _making_ it do it - the bottle kept landing on _him_ too and the last time, the last time it wasn’t a peck, or… or like a regular kiss, it was…

It was A Kiss and it went on for ages and there were hands involved and tongues and dead silence all around them when they parted and Jeannette looking stricken and Les looking dazed and he doesn’t even remember how the night ended he was in such a…

He didn’t even know.

He doesn’t even know.

But he wants to talk to him. 

His girlfriend of _five months_ whom he was actually really fond just dumped him and all he can think about is the texts from Les, how they didn’t even say anything bad really but he _knew_ , he knew he _wasn’t ok_ because he _knows_ him. 

He takes out his phone and he thinks about calling and then he sees Jeanette’s texts again and he puts his phone back because he feels guilty and he doesn’t know what to do about any of this so he sits, he sits in this beautiful restaurant and he looks at the couples and he finishes his glass and has another and he thinks this feeling, this feeling right now isn’t _new_. He’s felt out of it and cloudy-headed, _muddled_ , for months.

Because kissing Les like that didn’t feel wrong.

It felt very much exactly what he should be - _should have been_ doing for a very very long time.

Except Jeanette’s face, and the dead silence…

And then his nose had exploded all over the carpet, and right, yes, _that_ was the end of the night that he’d somehow blocked out.

He should really just go, the bottle is half empty now, he’s eaten two plates of bread and not ordered anything, someone will surely be along soon to kick him out of course, release the table for someone who could use it-

There’s a soft flutter of a hand out of the corner of his eye, a sudden deft swapping of the empty bread plate for a full one, and a nice voice says,

“Another one of those?”

And _Oh! Hi!_

“Oh! Hi…”

It’s the girl - the woman - the Musichetta - _Musichetta_ _Ashton_ \- the _candidate_ …. 

He looks up at her in wonder as he surely must be imagining this, and _why, brain, why_ , but she smiles down at him awkwardly seemingly very real and he has no idea how long she’s been there, if she’d been the one to switch out the bread the _last_ time and he just hadn’t _noticed_ and _oh God, what a twa-_

“It’s a… it’s a trial shift,” she explains with a half shrug and he stutters wordlessly, not looking away from her face, transfixed by the strangeness of this until he finally says, “It’s a nice place to-” **  
**

She gestures to the empty chair looking away briefly, says gently to it,

“Is ah… this… what it looks like?”

“Oh, no, I was supposed to meet my girl-um. My ex…” _So, yes, this is exactly what it looks like actually, I’ve been stood up, completely, but_ “Ah. Look. About the, um, shirt thing I - ah. I didn’t know what to say-”

“-We should probably arrange a swap back-”

“-It was a bad idea and you were upset and about to- to- to- ah in-interview and I wasn’t thinking, um, and I think because I’ve been in a bit of a, um, a _muddle_ recently with um… things… and I was bleeding -

_Stop talking Joly, stop talking-_

“Because you get them when you-”

“Yeah” _stop talking Joly, stop talking,_ “and the interview… I’m so sorry, if I’d known-” and his eyes are starting to burn and she’s so nice, she’s being so nice, he tries to remember if she had noted that on her CV, _Good people skills_ , because he is being very weird and talking too much and he feels like he might cry with the exhaustion of all of it and she says, 

“No, it’s fine.”

And he nods supportively, “Clearly,” because this is a very nice restaurant.

And he mustn’t cry here, not in this nice restaurant in front of this nice woman who’s interview he completely ruin-

“Actually, can I join you?

_Sorry?_

“Sorry?”

“Hang on.” **  
**

He watches her depart, a hand reaching behind her to untie her apron as she goes, and then suddenly she’s giving it to the gentleman at the till and she’s making her way back to him, and now she is sitting down and pouring the last of the wine into a glass for him, a glass for her, and she sounds out of breath when she says,

“Right. Let’s hear about this muddle then.”

and he blinks and she smiles and he finds himself smiling back still feeling like crying a little bit, but also not as much anymore he’s so bewildered. She tilts her head at him and he realizes she’s asked him a question.

“Sorry?”

“Your name - I never got it actually.”

“Oh, uh. Joly. Well. Michael. But… Joly.”

“Joly?”

“Yeah, um. Yes?”

“Your nose is bleeding again.” She hands him a napkin, “I'm Musichetta.”

He takes it and holds it to his nose, peering over it at her, his voice muffled, “Yes, I know, I. Um. Read it. Your CV.” 

She tries to laugh, clearly still mortified, and she _shouldn’t_ be, she really- “At least I made an impression,” and he smiles and moves the napkin a little so she can see that he is because he very much wants her to feel at ease.

“-I’m sure I did too in your-”

“-You did too in my-”

“shirt…” they both finish together. 

She laughs genuinely then and he does too.

They’re quiet for a moment, drinking. He picks at the fresh bread on the plate.

“Did you really just quit your ah, your trial?”

He nods at the man at the till who’s now on the phone gesticulating wildly and she takes another long sip from her glass.

“I did. Probably a really dumb thing to do-”

“Oh-”

“Definitely a dumb thing to do-”

“Oh no-”

She shakes her head, “I don’t want to work in a restaurant, anyway. _Hence_ ,” she tips her glass at him. 

“Oh.”

“And you looked like you needed someone,” she says abruptly. “I was watching you.”

 _Oh God-_ “You didn’t change my bread before, did you?”

“No,” she smiles a little, “I asked Lou if I could take her table for a minute.”

He relaxes, tenses, “Why?”

“Like I said, you looked like you needed someone… And I guess I figured since I sort of knew you, maybe it should be me.”

She catches the waitress’s eye, Lou’s, and asks for another bottle. As she departs to retrieve it, Musichetta says suddenly, remembering, “I actually can’t pay for that…”

“It’s fine, it’s on me. I feel I um. Owe you.”

They’re quiet again. He discreetly tucks the napkin under his unused plate once it feels safe to do so. She plays with rings on her fingers, her necklace. She waits until the second bottle is uncorked and her glass refreshed, before continuing, “So. Muddle?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m in love with my best friend.”

The glass pauses halfway to her lips.

“Oh.”

And he blinks, surprised at how easily that has tumbled out, like it’s always been a fact, a _Well, **obviously** , ha!_

“Is she um-”

He swallows, “He. Actually.”

“Oh.”

She sets the glass down entirely and he panics at the thought she might go.

“Oh, please don’t leave-”

“No, no I wasn’t going to, just. Well, I’m a bit disappointed, I think.”

“Disappointed?”

“I mean I should have expected.”

“Expected?”

“I have such terrible luck in every avenue of my life but I thought maybe just say _fuck it_ just once, you know, _caution to the wind_ and all that. I’ve had a terrible go of things, and this feels strangely like fate almost, and you’re very handsome, seem very sweet if a bit odd, nice hair, I quite like your voice, so I thought, _fuck it_ , I will sit down with this odd handsome man who seems in need of someone maybe like I’m in need of someone, at least more so than a handful of tips anyway, and if we end up in the back of a taxi at some point it might be very nice as you seem very nice, if odd.” 

He’s blinking and stuttering a bit wordlessly, blushing intensely as she continues, “But of course. You’re gay. That’s alright, I’d still like to sit with you and drink this. Hear about this _best-friend-love_ muddle. I’ve never been in love, not really I think, just in _awful_ "like" so I’m not sure how much help I’d be, but as I said you looked like you needed someone-”

“-I think I really do-”

“-and your date ditched you, which personally I think is bad form, but what do I know. Unless - did you cheat on her with your best friend?”

“No! I… well… No. I don’t think-”

“Oh, Joly, that does _not_ sound convincing-”

“There was a party game, you see... You know, you’re…”

“What?”

“ _Lovely_ … by the way, very, um.”

She laughs. “No need to soothe my ego. It’s been kicked to bits long before this-”

“No,” he says, seriously, “No, I would be very happy to end up in the back of a taxi with you, but I. I’m.”

“Gay.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. Maybe. For my best friend at least. I don’t know how anything works anymore.”

She smiles, soft, “No. Me neither. Maybe that’s for the best. Certainty can be so limiting.”

She takes a sip. Pauses. Clinks his glass.

He dutifully takes a gulp from his, reminded it’s there. 

“But again, what do I know. About anything. _Love_.”

“Can I ask…”

“Hm.”

“You um. Need someone. You said. More than tips, you said.”

“Oh. Yes. I actually didn’t know that until I said it.”

He nods, nods, nods.

“I didn’t know I was in love with him. Until I said it just now.”

“Isn’t that funny.”

“It is. It’s funny.”

“Alright then. Let’s say things to each other we’ve never said out loud. And then we’ll part forever and… I will look for _another_ new job and you will…?”

“Tell Lesgle I’ve been in love with him since I was thirteen.”

She raises her glass, _Cheers_.

“And you… will find the perfect job for you which is-”

“Violinist.”

“You play?”

“Not a bit. Never touched one.”

He laughs.

“I love them though. My gran played. I have pictures.”

“Maybe you’ve inherited her talent?”

“I’ve inherited her nose.”

“It’s a nice nose.”

“Is it?”

He nods.

“Joly?”

“Yes, Musichetta?”

“Why Joly and not Michael?”

“Oh. My friends, most of us go by last names.”

“Why’s that?”

“…You know, I… don’t… actually know… actually.”

“Do you like being called Michael?”

He blushes.

“At the moment, yes.”

“Shall I call you that? For tonight?”

He blushes harder.

“Alright.”

“Michael. Michael, I often fantasize about stealing my neighbour’s Maine Coone cat. He’s glorious. His name is Hugo Sebastian Alexander Weaver and she always calls him by his full name so I’m not sure if he’s always naughty or just worthy of a name like that all the time. I suspect the latter.”

“I _love_ cats, I always wanted a cat, but I’m allergic, I think. At least that’s what I was told.” He pauses. “My mother doesn’t like cats…”

“You’re a trusting sort of person, then.”

“Well, my mother.”

She smiles. Bites her lip. Thinks.

“I ammm... not as daring as I’d like to be.”

“I’m... a deep believer of feng shui and the placement of this table is making me itch.”

“I was so tired of girls touching my hair at school one day I cut it all off in the bathroom.”

“That’s pretty daring.”

“It looked horrible, but I committed.”

“I think you’re a very interesting person.”

“I think you say ‘sorry’ a lot.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She grins. Hides it behind her glass.

“I like your name. It’s beautiful.”

She looks at the placemat in front of her, smooths down a corner.

“I read tarot cards and maybe rely on them too much to make big decisions.”

“You’re uncomfortable. With compliments.”

“Unused to them, I suppose. Tell me a secret.”

“I slept with a Paddington Bear until I was twelve.”

Pause. Her eyes flick up to his.

“I love that.”

He ducks his head.

“Now you,” he says.

“I feel like I’ve been lonely my whole life.”

He nods. Pauses. Nods again.

“Me too. Or at least until…”

“Until what was his name?”

“Lesgle.”

She nods.

“I like that. Sounds old. Distinguished.”

He laughs, “Oh he’s not, he’s… _a Hot Arsed Mess_.”

“Hot arsed, you say?” She grins at him again and he blushes.

“Well, _he’d_ say. In those exact words. Exactly-”

“You’re blushing, Michael.”

"- _I_ wouldn't, um," He blushes harder, stammering, “Though he is, um. Well. Ah, ah, a _klutz,_ he means. With the _worst_ luck of anyone I’ve _ever_ known.” 

She raises an eyebrow at that, accepting the challenge.

“Musichetta, I hope that’s not true.”

“Unfortunately, it is - I’d put money down that I’m unluckier than your hot-arsed Les-”

“About being lonely.”

Pause.

“Well, I quit a potential gig to chat with a strange man and drink wine, what do you think, Michael?”

“I think I don’t want you to be lonely.”

She looks away, drinks.

“Anyway, something else, something you’ve never said.”

“I’m afraid of the plague.”

“The… plague? Like… the Black…? Or is there a more current one I don’t know about?”

“Any plague will do.”

“Alright.”

“Now, you go.”

“I lied about never touching a violin. I have. My grans. I sold it when I needed money for rent 4 weeks ago and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

“I’ve never done anything daring my whole life.”

“I wanted to throw that glass of water at you during the non-interview but didn’t because you looked so distressed.”

“It was exciting kissing my best friend in front of my girlfriend though.”

“I want to drink this entire bottle of wine and wake up in your room. Do you have nice windows where the light comes right in, in the morning?”

“I-”

“On your couch. Wake up in your room on your couch-” she clarifies.

“Oh, I’d let you have my bed!”

“Would you?”

“Of course, that couch is terrible.”

“I have a very nice apartment, just so you know. I don’t want you to think I’m homeless because I sold a family heirloom-”

“We should find it!”

“What?”

“We should go to where you sold it, and find it, and ask for it back.”

She’s quiet. Smiles softly into her glass.

“Maybe someone who plays will buy it.”

“You could learn to! My friend, Feuilly-” He blinks. “I don’t… actually know his first name. My God, I’ve known him for _two years_.”

She laughs.

“He plays - Covent Garden - he’s a busker in the evenings.”

“What does he play?”

“Oasis.”

She laughs again.

“You have a lovely laugh, Musichetta.”

“We should call him.”

“Feuilly?”

“Your best friend.”

“Oh, no, no, I’m terrified, I think. To do that. He doesn’t love me. Not like. Like.”

“How do you know?”

He takes a sip of wine, shakes his head, “You go.”

She holds his gaze, not letting him get away, “I’m terrified of _flying_ , but I’d still get on a plane if it could take me where I want to go.”

He shakes his head again, looks at his nearly empty glass, pours some more.

She takes pity on him, “What was the party game then?”

“Sorry?”

“You said there was a party game.”

“Oh, yes. The bottle one. With the spinning and the - the kissing.”

“Ah.”

“We kissed. Many times. A lot of times and then the last time was…”

“Ah.”

“Have you ever kissed with your whole soul?”

“I… No, I… I haven’t.”

“It’s _awesome_.”

She laughs and he continues,

“Tell me something else.”

“I am _really_ jealous of Lesgle.”

He smiles.

“And you have a sweet smile, Michael.”

“You’re… just… _lovely_ , Musi- _Musichetta_.”

“Yes, well, we’ve drunk this entire bottle, you see.”

“Oh no…”

“Oh, yes, and I have _not_ had _three_ plates of bread and somehow I think I’m still less drunk-”

She laughs as he slaps his hands over his eyes.

“I am, I am drunk.” He drags a hand down his face, rests his cheek in it, looking at her, and she really is really very pretty. Her eyes are very dark. Lovely. She’s really very-

He swallows as she looks at him over the rim of her glass.

“I had ah… a half bottle before you- you. Saved me. So. A bit ahead, no?”

She finishes her wine. Takes a breath.

“Michael.”

“ _Muuuusichetta_ ….”

“I’m going to take you home and sleep on your couch. Because I actually kind of am. Homeless. At the moment.”

“On, no, that couch is terrible, please-"

“-I’m not sleeping in your bed-”

“-Oh, but you’re more than welcome!”

**+++**

In the morning he awakens to his cheek pressed into the carpet and one foot on the couch, the only part of him that hadn’t fallen completely off of it in the night. 

His head is throbbing.

He can’t remember the last time he’s woken up like this, feeling like _this_ , and oh, it’s _horrible_. 

He slowly gets to his hands and knees, agonizingly slow, slow like the _Evolution of Man_ and after what feels like sufficient millennia have passed he gets fully to his feet and makes his way to his room. 

His bed is made. But made differently than he makes it - the corners less precise, not pulled quite as tightly, but made nonetheless, and he remembers suddenly the restaurant and the girl from the interview, the _woman_ …

 _Musichetta_. 

_Musichetta Ashton_ with her kind voice and pretty dark eyes and her hand landing gently in his hair in the taxi home, stroking like when he was a child, just for a moment, and he echos the touch with his own hand briefly before needing the wall for support again. 

He can’t precisely remember, but thinks he may have asked to kiss her, may have asked her to share the couch with him.

Or maybe he’d just imagined all of it and made his own bed.

But the corners are not pulled tightly enough, the duvet not evenly touching the floor, but dipping down more on one side than the other.

He claws his way along the wall to the bathroom and her shirt that he’d left to soak in the sink is gone. 

He’d maybe have thought he dreamt it all if not for the shirt being gone.

He stands there staring at the empty sink, the drops of water along the rim and if he didn’t feel like his head might fall off he might try and see if she were still on the landing, making her way down the stairs, maybe just outside the front door.

He wonders if it would be creepy to get her number from her CV and immediately hears Combeferre’s voice in his head confirming, _Yes, Joly. That would be creepy._

He checks his phone still in his back pocket, no further messages from Lesgle. His heart twists.

He stands there a moment in his empty bedroom, still fully dressed, in _shoes_ even, with a hand in his hair stroking through it again for a moment, the other rubbing his chest before falling face-first into his bed and it smells nice like cloves and cinnamon and he falls asleep asleep asleep.


End file.
